Utarilla settled back. "Very well, then." She turned to Ysabel, where another wave pulsed through the sleeping woman's belly. But this time a gray and red lump squeezed out, plopped on the floor. Ysabel did not even move. "You may cut here." Utarilla pointed with her gnarled finger. His knife slit through the cord easily. She looked up at Henri. "So this is the Baroness de Reuilles."
"Indeed." There did not seem to be much blood, and the baby was whole. "Are you a healing woman?" He had never asked her. But she seemed to know what she was doing.
She let out her breath in a long sigh. "Once I was." Her arms made a gentle rocking motion; the baby's eyes closed. "I hope she does not come to her senses," she continued. Ysabel was stirring. Her hands twitched and her head moved from side to side.
"Why?"
"Think I am stupid?" She shook her head when he bristled. Her finger stroked the baby's cheek.
He reached out, grazed the top of the baby's head. A curious pride and bleak resentment warred in his heart. The boy would never know him. He drew his hand back, stepped away, looked down at Ysabel. "Why did she go mad?"
"The mannikin," she breathed. "Some of her went into its making."
"Nonsense."
Utarilla's eyes glinted up at him. "Think so?"
But Ysabel was lifting her head, struggling to rise. He went over to her, pulled her up to where she could sit. Her eyes were unfocused brown smudges in her dirty face. Then they sharpened, darted to the bars of the cell, rested upon Utarilla. Shock and puzzlement swept across her face. She looked up at Henri.
"Henri?" Her hands raised to touch him, then stopped. She frowned at the filth encrusted on her palms. "What?" Now she looked around her again. "What am I doing here?"
Chapter 34
RICHARD climbed the slope from the river, his arms filled with his share of the wool, bound and wrapped in leafy ferns. He had washed away the smell of sheep in the river with the other shearers. His skin tingled from the sand and leaves he used to scrub his arms and legs. It was nearly May, trees were in full leaf, the sun bore down on him. He had even taken off his shirt. His body ached and his muscles screamed with fatigue. Yet he was glad. He would be able to sleep tonight. That was very good.
He did not sleep well, here in Canigou. It was not because of the air, air that at first had numbed his fingers and parched the back of his throat, air that now pressed fragrant kisses against his face. The silence that blanketed the mountain every night did not trouble him. No, none of these things tore him from his sleep. He stopped and shifted his burden, peered up ahead to where his one-room stone hut waited.
Marc had moved into Richard's hut. Oh, Marc had given Richard a story of how he had fought with his mother and she had chased him from the house, but that was not true. Adelie had ordered her son to stay with Richard. They were worried about him, about his inability to sleep. Many nights, when Richard's eyes blinked open, the first thing he saw was Marc's lanky form sprawled across the bed in the corner of the hut. Not that Marc awakened him. Richard dropped the fern-bound wool on his doorstep and pushed the door open. It was dreams that wrested Richard from his sleep. Dreams of Maríana. Again!
He had banished her from his dreams, so many years ago. Then he had thrown away the bloodstone and invited her back, only to find that the banishment was complete. She had not returned. At first, Adelie had tried giving him plants that would make him sleep- valerian and manzanilla, vervain and violets. In desperation, he took her sleeping draught, drank it every night for the first month he spent in this valley. But the plants erased his dreams and he treasured these dreams, even when they hurled him into wakefulness.
Marc seemed to know this. Every time Richard awakened, writhing from dreams of his beloved, Marc would also awake.
"What is it?" Marc would always say.
"Go back to sleep," Richard would always say.
Then Richard would take the flute he had carved from a bough of the ash tree, throw his mantle across his shoulders and climb the path all the way to the bell forest. Beneath the trees, amidst the chime of the bells, the drone of the air harp, he would raise his flute and play the anguish that lived inside him. The flute had a fine resonance; his breath shaped sounds that lived, rich and ripe tones that lingered in the air. Slowly, the melody would allay the aching in his heart, easing his torment and enabling him to return to his hut and sleep the short while until sunrise.
For the past several nights, even his music had failed to give him solace. It was not Maríana's distance that troubled him. It was her presence.
She had appeared on his doorstep all last month. At first, she had questions; how could she divert water from the stream to feed Adelie's garden, how high should she make her fence to keep rabbits from eating her patch of thyme? Then she had brought gifts, a platter filled with fresh bread and potent new cheese from Adelie's goats, an armful of fragrant rushes for his floor. She had mended his boots, had brought him parchment so he could write down the words to the songs that were always dancing in his head.
He liked her near him, liked smelling the green earth tang of rosemary, sweet violets and lavender on her hands, seeing the tiny dimple appear at the corner of her mouth, the way her hair escaped whatever bonds she had placed on it to form floating spirals around her face. But this made his senses reel, and each time he tried to touch her, she slipped away. He did not know what he should do. It was easier when he watched her from afar.
Well, at least the hut was empty now. No Marc to jabber at him in Basque, no Maríana to make his loins ache. He placed the wool under his bed. Some of it he would give to Leila. She had promised to make a gown for Maríana if he supplied the wool. Maríana stubbornly clung to the old woolen robe she had taken from that chest in the tower. It hung in a shapeless bulge from her slender frame, and it was heavy. He lay down, stretched his legs, put his arms up, hands under his head.
He was tired of seeing Maríana swelter in that old robe. This gift was more for him than it was for her, although she probably would not see that. Well, if she would not take a gift from him, perhaps she would accept one from Leila. His jaw stretched in a yawn. Just as he closed his eyes, footsteps pattered up the path, pounded through the open door and into the hut. He opened one eye.
"The women are washing their clothing again." Marc stood hovering over him.
"So?" They went through this every day. Marc thought it was his duty to find a woman for him. Richard had tried to tell the young man that there was only one woman he wanted, but Marc would not listen. Now that spring had come, women seemed to be everywhere.
Last week, Richard had given in and gone down with Marc to the stream where women gathered to wash their gowns, their children's clothes, their husbands' or brothers' shirts and breeches. A ring of trees surrounded the shallow pool the stream formed before flowing out again to meet the river. Several young women from the village were there, barefoot in their chemises and underskirts, laughing and joking as they dunked their gowns into the water and stamped them clean. It was unseemly, seeing so many women practically unclothed. But when Richard had glanced aside, he had seen a line of young men and boys standing just beyond the boundary of the trees. They were all watching the women cavort in the pool. He had shaken his head and walked away, leaving Marc there.
"Maríana is with them this time."
"What?" Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed, hunted for the shoes he had kicked off. "How long ago did they go down there?" Maríana could not know that the men watched the women washing their gowns. He must go to her, see that no one accosted her.
"They are there now." Marc turned and walked out the door. He must have misunderstood Richard's question. This often happened. Neither French nor the langue d'oc was spoken here. Adelie could manage the langue d'oc, and Iranzu and Leila were fluent in both, but everyone else spoke Basque. And this, Richard still had not mastered. He did not believe he ever would.
Marc loped ahead down the path that led to the pool. Richard lengthened his st
ride, then halted when he looked down and saw his bare chest. "I forgot my shirt," he said, and turned to go back to the hut.
"You will not need it." Marc tugged on Richard's wrist.
Richard shrugged. The day was warm, after all.
He could hear them before he reached the ring of trees, the lilting voices, the music of women's laughter. The young men and boys had already formed a clump just behind the trees. When Richard and Marc arrived, a few glanced over at him, nodding their recognition. Several of his sheep-shearing companions grinned at him. Richard nodded back and then looked at the women in the pool. Maríana was there.
She leaned down, her hands in the water, wearing the nightgown she had torn off after she had lost her baby. The fall of yellowed silk clung to her form. Leila must have repaired it.
"He no longer troubles her." Marc's gaze slid over to him, then returned to the women.
"Who?" Richard must ask Iranzu for help. He could not master the inflections of this language. Marc often made statements that did not make any sense, yet Richard knew he was a sturdy, sober lad. It must be his own hearing or understanding that was at fault.
"The other one."
Richard waited for more, but Marc was silent. Should he ask Marc what he meant? Richard did this at least twenty times a day. It was fortunate Marc was patient.
The splashing grew louder, chattering voices turned to squeals. Leila had grabbed the sleeve of Maríana's woolen robe and was trying to wrest it from her. Good! Rip it to shreds. The old wool flopped and stretched. Several of the women looked over to where the men stood. The men froze, glanced at each other and their faces split into grins. Then a warbling cry started in the group of men. Its answer sounded from the women. Marc seized his arm.
"We are chasing today." With that, he was off, plunging through the trees and into the pool. All the men were.
Richard darted after them, headed for Maríana. He could not be sure that Marc had said "chasing" which was surely a harmless child's game. His grasp of Basque was so pitiful that Marc could have said "raping" and it would have sounded the same. This looked serious. The women were scattering, leaving their laundry on the banks. Whether their screams were prompted by delight or terror, he could not say. Canigou was a strange place.
Three men surrounded Maríana. She held up her hands to ward them off. They stopped an arm's length away, yet still circled around her.
Richard splashed across the pool. He would take the largest one first. His hands balled into fists; he flexed his arms. Maríana straightened, stared directly at him. The men stopped their circling. One looked at Richard, then nodded to the other two, and all three lumbered away, crossing the pool to the other side.
"What was that about?" It was good to speak the langue d'oc, to see Maríana without that dreadful wool robe. But Maríana did not answer. Her lips parted in a dazzling smile. Then she dashed into the trees, into the thickest part of the forest.
Damn! Richard lunged after her. Iranzu had told him there were wolves in this forest. What did she think she was doing? Three steps into the woods, the boughs of black pine swallowed the sun. He squinted into the green-black gloom. A flash of yellowed silk beckoned. He hurried after it, and the glimmer of nightgown and ivory skin vanished. Chasing, eh? Well, he would show her chasing. He looked down and threw his eyes out of focus. His mother had taught him this. When his eyes were not so busy seeing, he could catch more with his sight. Maríana's tracks appeared, bright glowing spots along the carpet of pine needles. He sped after her.
There she was, ducking around the massive trunk of a pine, darting ahead toward tall fine-leafed ferns. These ferns made a dense thicket. If she reached them, he would lose her. He leaped forward, reaching for her arm. She stumbled and fell, pulled him down with her onto the yielding floor of the forest.
The fall knocked the wind out of him. He lay with Maríana cradled in his arms, his legs tangled with hers, fighting for air. Lost in his battle to fill his lungs, he did not notice Maríana's hand until it settled firmly in the middle of his chest. He quivered, but could do nothing but wheeze. Then he felt her match his breath, quick, shallow pants in time with his attempts to bring air into his squeezed lungs. Slowly, her breaths lengthened and deepened, and his followed, until the roaring in his ears subsided. Until he could look into her face.
She was watching him with those green-fire eyes. When he met her gaze, she lifted her hand from where it had rested on his chest. His skin there prickled. "I did not use sorcery on you just now," she said, her voice constrained, defensive. "It was a trick to calm children. Ibrahim taught me this."
"Very well." He drew in a deep breath, released it. "Thank you." He did not want to move, but his left arm was wedged underneath her and starting to go numb. He could see the glimmer of her skin through the thin silk of her gown. The heat of his body rose. Everywhere they touched sent tremors all the way through him. If he did not move away now... .
"Are you cold?" She moved as if to touch his face, then stopped.
"No." He moved away and sat up. The steady thump of wet wool striking stone had started again. He rose to his feet, pushed ferns aside, reached his hand toward her. "It sounds like the women have returned to the pool. I will walk you back." This would give him time to cool his ardor.
For a moment, she did not move. Then in one fluid motion, she stood in front of him. He felt her regard delve into him, touch something that he did not even know was there, something that emerged in throbbing waves. His heart thudded, his whole body yearned. This was more than wanting, more than lust. He hurt. Even his fingertips carried the aching pulse. He reached for her shoulders.
"Richard." Her voice caught. "I cannot." She stepped back, eyes beset with remorse. "Adelie told me for the circle fire..."
He drew his hands from her grasp and turned away. The circle fire. Of course. She must be untouched the entire month before the circle fire. It was tomorrow, wasn't it? He waited for the bitter anger to fade. Yet it did not lessen his wanting, this anger. He had avoided the circle of wicker giants that stood in the field below Iranzu's stone house. Marc had asked for his help in making the lord, their Juanandim, but Richard had refused. He wanted no part of this ritual that would take Maríana even farther away from him. Just the thought of her in another man's arms drove him mad. It did not matter that what she would do in the circle was in service of the ritual. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Well, she had not asked him to be her consort, had she? He was not from Canigou. His hands flexed. There, he could move them, unhook the fists he had made.
When he trusted his voice again, he said, "We must return, then." He extended his hand behind him without looking at her, felt the pressure of her fingers on his palm. Then he stepped out of the nest of ferns, pulling her with him, and marched off in the direction of the pool.
THE HEARTH fire painted golden patterns across her skin. Maríana stood quietly while Adelie braided the last of the vines into her gown.
Adelie stepped back, appraising the living fabric that hung from Maríana's neck to her toes. It was entirely made of newly sprouted vines with leaves and blossoms interlaced through the strands of ivy, of climbing bean and bindweed.
"Was there any more news about my father?" For the past two months stories from the outside had come to Canigou. One man who had kin in Reuilles-la-ville had risked the journey there, but Maríana could scarcely credit the tale he brought back. How could the Inquisitor have imprisoned Ysabel? It was Ysabel who had brought the Inquisition to Reuilles-le-château. No, she could not believe this. Yet every time she thought about it, she could not stop her lips from curving into a smile.
"Your father remains free." Adelie's voice was neutral, but her eyes were cold. She did not like Louis-Philippe, even though Maríana knew her aunt had never met him. "The two women are in the dungeon."
"Still?" But they had been taken before Christmas.
Adelie nodded, then grasped a trailing leaf and tugged it free. "The pope's men are waiting for so
meone to arrive," she said, "someone important."
"Who?"
Adelie shrugged. "Bauçais is there." She tilted her head. "He is with the church, yes? Perhaps he sent for someone."
Maríana had banished Henri from her heart, from her dreams. But the image of him standing in Ysabel's embrace still had the power to wound. She waited until the sting of memory washed through her and faded.
That life was gone. She would not see her father again, nor Johanna, nor Geneviéve. And Ibrahim... Maríana blinked her eyes, used her palms to wipe away the tiny droplets that coated her lashes. Once she had never cried, now she feared she would never stop. She made a half-turn, watched the leaves ripple around her as her tears dried. "I still do not know how I am to choose."
Adelie lifted her head. "Choose?"
Maríana stepped away from the hearth. She had nothing at all on underneath the leaf and vine gown. But the night was warm. Sweat was starting to bead between her lip and her nose. "Choose the one who will initiate me."
Adelie approached her, hands filled with a net covered with glittering shards of crystal. "I thought you had already chosen." She unbound Maríana's hair so it fell in undulating waves to her waist, then placed the crystal-encrusted net on top of her head, deftly fastening it to her hair.
"But you forbade me to tell him." Light flashed when she moved. The net framed her face, clear stones captured and threw the glow from the hearth across the walls. "You said I couldn't even touch him." Her last words died when she remembered yesterday, Richard's legs jammed against hers, the warm radiance from his bare skin as they lay there.
"You did not obey me, did you?"
Blast! Adelie always seemed to know everything she did.
"But don't worry," Adelie continued. "The call has gone out." She twitched a piece of the net so it hung in a straight line. "He will know."
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